Page 12 of Prospect’s Curvy Beekeeper

The heat radiating off my body collides with the chill of the mountain air. She freezes. Her canvas gloves hover over the top of the hive box.

I reach out. Bare hands. I wrap my fingers over hers on the metal handle of the smoker. The leather of my cut shifts against my shoulders.

"I'll take the late shift on this." My voice is low.

She looks up. No veil today. Her face is bare, framed by strands of hair escaping her messy braid. Her lips part. A soft, shuddering intake of air.

I take the metal smoker from her grip. Set it on the flat lid of the neighboring box.

The bees lift from the top bars of Colony D. Dozens of them. A low, vibrating hum fills the space between us. They swarm up, a chaotic cloud of gold and black, furious at the open lid. They circle the space between our bodies. They drift over my bare forearms. They land on the ink of my tattoos. They crawl over the raised, jagged scars on my knuckles.

They don’t sting.

They don’t give a single fuck about the feral rage boiling under my skin. They simply read the stillness in my muscles. A stillness I’ve never achieved in my life until I walked onto this dirt.

I place my bare palm flat against the top of the open wooden lid.

The vibration hums into my skin. A frantic, living current. The queen. The pulse of the hive transmitting through the painted wood straight into my bones. The colony accepts me. The bees settle over the back of my hand like a living, buzzing glove.

She watches my hand. A dark flush creeps up her neck, staining her throat.

She pulls the canvas gloves off. Tosses them onto the grass. Bare skin.

The tension in the air turns into a physical weight. A gravity dragging us together.

I crowd her.

Step into her shadow. My boots crush the wild grass. She backs up. Her hips hit the edge of the white wooden hive box. The solid structure stops her retreat.

I trap her there.

Plant one bare hand on the wood on the left side of her waist. Plant the other on the right. Cage her in.

The bees settle on my arms. A moving, buzzing layer of life. They’re unbothered by the heat radiating off my skin. They ignore the territorial beast clawing at my ribs. The hum of the hive mirrors the frantic hum of blood roaring through my veins.

This means something. The bees know what’s about to happen. They know she belongs to me.

She tilts her chin up. Her chest rises and falls in rapid, shallow bursts. The canvas of her suit stretches tight over her breasts. The scent of her—warm beeswax, morning sweat, and a dark, musky sweetness—crashes into my system.

Blood rushes violently to my cock. A painful demand.

I need to bite something.

The rage always needs an anchor. A target. The bees never bite me. I have nothing to fight here. Just her. Just the overwhelming, devastating need to claim every inch of her body.

I lean down. Bury my face in the soft, warm curve of her neck.

My teeth scrape over the delicate skin right under her jaw.

She gasps. A sharp, fractured sound. Her hands come up. Bare fingers gripping the cotton of my black t-shirt. She holds on like she is falling off the edge of the mountain.

I open my mouth. Press my lips against the rapid, erratic beat of the pulse in her throat. Suck hard.

A low moan breaks from her throat.

I bite down. Just enough pressure to leave a mark. Marking my territory. Claiming the skin. The metallic tang of adrenaline mixes with the sweet taste of her sweat.

I drag my open mouth across the curve of her throat. Tasting the salt of her sweat. Tasting the faint sweetness of beeswax on her skin from her morning shift at the hives. I bite the soft flesh under her jaw. Not hard enough to bruise. Hard enough to leave a mark a Syndicate scout will see from across the southern trail. My teeth scrape down to her pulse and I hold there, my mouth open against the frantic beat in her throat.